The kingdom drowned in black.
Banners of mourning swallowed golden palace walls. Silk drapes muted the brilliance of chandeliers. Even sunlight seemed hesitant, slipping weakly through stained glass as though afraid to disturb sorrow too vast for words.
The bells had not stopped ringing.
Slow.
Heavy.
Merciless.
Each toll another wound.
Ophelia was gone.
The people wept openly in the streets.
Because this was not merely the loss of a Queen.
This was the loss of kindness itself.
"She was gentle…"
"She loved us…"
"She was light…"
Inside the palace—
Silence reigned.
The King had not left Ophelia's chambers.
Not once.
Not since that dreadful day.
He sat beside her empty bed like a man abandoned by reality itself. His crown lay untouched. His robes discarded. His eyes hollowed by sleepless nights and grief that refused mercy.
In his trembling hands—
A single object.
Their daughter.
The newborn lay swaddled in silk, small and fragile, her snow-pale skin glowing softly beneath candlelight.
She slept peacefully.
Unaware.
Innocent.
Cruelly untouched by the devastation surrounding her existence.
The King's fingers trembled as they brushed her cheek.
"…Ophelia…"
The whisper broke.
"…she looks exactly like you…"
The child stirred faintly.
Blind eyes fluttering.
Searching for a world she would never see.
Pain ripped through his chest like a blade.
Because love and guilt are cruel companions.
Meanwhile—
Far beyond mourning bells…
Far beyond palace grief…
Selara stood alone.
The battlefield stretched endlessly before her.
But she did not see it.
The letter lay crumpled in her grasp.
Ink blurred by tears long since dried.
For hours…
Days…
No one knew…
Selara had not moved.
Soldiers watched from a distance.
Uneasy.
Whispering.
Fearful.
Because grief had not broken her.
Grief had erased her.
Her eyes were open.
Yet empty.
Her breathing shallow.
Mechanical.
Her body present…
But the woman herself…
Gone.
"My Lady…"
A soldier approached cautiously.
Voice trembling.
"…we must prepare to march."
Silence.
No response.
No movement.
No flicker of life.
Because Selara was no longer listening.
Inside her mind—
Only echoes remained.
Ophelia's laughter.
Ophelia's voice.
Ophelia's letters.
My dearest Selara…
A memory surfaced.
Soft.
Cruel.
Unbearable.
Two young girls running through sunlit gardens.
White lilies in Ophelia's hair.
Selara's laughter chasing hers.
Then—
Darkness swallowed it.
Selara's fingers twitched faintly.
A tear slid silently down her cheek.
But her expression did not change.
"…My Lady?"
Slowly…
Painfully…
Selara blinked.
The world seemed foreign.
Distant.
Meaningless.
"…March?"
Her voice was hollow.
Barely human.
Barely alive.
Relief flooded the soldiers.
"She speaks…"
But the sound carried no warmth.
No fire.
No grief.
Only emptiness.
Selara rose slowly.
Movements unnatural.
Mechanical.
Like something driven by instinct rather than will.
"…Yes."
A whisper.
Cold.
Vacant.
"We march."
The soldiers froze.
Because that voice…
Was not Selara's.
It lacked rage.
Lacked sorrow.
Lacked life.
It was the voice of someone who had lost everything…
…and felt nothing anymore.
As Selara stepped forward, wind tugging at her dark cloak, whispers rippled through the ranks like a spreading chill.
"That's not grief…"
"…That's worse…"
"…There's nothing left…"
Because rage can be reasoned with.
Pain can be soothed.
Even vengeance can be understood.
But emptiness…
Emptiness is terrifying.
Far away—
In the cradle of mourning—
A blind infant stirred softly in silk blankets.
A kingdom wept.
A King shattered.
And upon distant battlefields—
A legend walked.
Not driven by fury.
Not driven by revenge.
But by something far darker.
Nothing.